Page 20 of All That Glitters

Chapter sixteen

Friends Don't Let Friends Dial Drunk

Debbie and Veronica spilled in through the door of their apartment, a giggling, stumbling mess, clinging to each other for balance.

They’d spent the evening butchering Buffet and Beach Boys songs in rounds of karaoke at the beachside dive-bar aptly named ‘Margaritaville.’ Debbie still clutched the half-empty bottle of tequila they’d picked up on the Uber ride home.

“Could you believe that guy?” Veronica giggled, collapsing onto a chair and kicking off her shoes. “‘After you, Miss Campbell.’”

Debbie staggered after her, mimicking a different, equally smarmy voice. “‘No, please. After you, Miss Hamlin. I insist’.” She attempted a bow and nearly toppled headfirst into the coffee table.

They both burst into a fresh wave of laughter, the kind that makes your ribs hurt. Debbie plopped onto the couch and took a long, brave swig directly from the tequila bottle. She shuddered, grimacing as though she’d just swallowed lighter fluid. “Gross. Why do we drink this stuff?”

“Because you’re too chicken to ask out Tony when you’re sober,” Veronica said. She snagged the bottle from Debbie’s hand and took her own swig.

“I should just do it, shouldn’t I?” Debbie said, feeling a sudden surge of liquid courage. “Just call him up right now and say…” She paused, her mind drawing a fuzzy blank. “Feel free to fill in the blank.”

“Tell him you wanna have his babies,” Veronica suggested, then cracked up so hard she nearly fell out of her chair.

“No, wait! Wait! You should do that cigarette thing again. Where you spit out the crumbs and then burn his place down.” She wiped away tears of laughter.

“Men love women who can commit arson. It’s science. ”

Debbie ignored her. She rose unsteadily to her feet and staggered over to the phone. “I’ll think of something.” She picked up the receiver and stared at it for a long moment. “What’s his number again?”

“You don’t know your own future husband’s number?” Veronica gasped in mock horror. “For shame!”

“I think those brain cells died after the second drink,” Debbie muttered.

“It’s on the fridge. Under ‘ICE’ — In Case of Emergency.”

“You put Tony as my emergency contact?”

“Well, yeah,” Veronica shrugged. “He’s the only one who knows how to talk you down when you get all worked up about stuff. Remember when that squirrel got into our apartment and you climbed on top of the refrigerator? Tony was the one who got you down.”

“That squirrel had teeth the size of ice picks,” Debbie muttered, swaying slightly as she made her way to the refrigerator. She squinted at the list of numbers, her finger tracing down until she found Tony’s. “Got it.”

She returned to the phone and picked it up. “Dialing now. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, girl,” Veronica cheered her on from her sprawled position in the armchair. “You show him what a sophisticated drunk I’ve made you. And try not to burp.”

And with that, Debbie began dialing...

Morning sunlight, painfully bright, streamed through the blinds, illuminating the carnage of the night before. Empty chip bags and a half-eaten pizza decorated the coffee table. Two lime wedges had somehow become stuck to the ceiling. The tequila bottle lay on its side, mercifully empty.

Debbie lay passed out on the couch, the phone still clutched in her hand. Veronica was asleep in the armchair, curled up in a position that would guarantee neck pain for days.

Veronica groaned first, easing one eye open and immediately regretting it. “What time is it?”

Debbie squinted at the window, the effort causing sharp pains in her eyeballs. “Daylight time.” She pulled a cushion over her face to block the light. “Make it stop.”

Veronica fumbled for the sunglasses on the floor and slid them onto her face. “So, did you talk to him last night?”

“Talk to who?”

“Tony,” Veronica said, her voice raspy. “You were finally gonna out yourself. Tell him about your not-so-secret undying love for him.”

Debbie looked down and saw the phone in her hand. The memories, blurry and tequila-soaked, came crashing back. She sat bolt upright, then immediately clutched her head as the room spun violently. “Oh. My. Gosh. You let me drunk dial Tony?”

“It was too funny not to,” Veronica croaked.

Debbie cringed, rubbing her pounding temples.

“So did you guys talk?”

Debbie thought about it, trying to piece together the fragments of the night before. It was like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle while wearing oven mitts. “No. No, I think I got his voicemail.” A fresh wave of horror washed over her. “And then I proceeded to leave a long, mushy message.”

“Did you tell him you wanted to have his babies?”

Debbie froze, gritting her teeth. “I don’t know. But I might have.”

Veronica burst into laughter, which immediately turned into a pained groan. “Ow, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“It’s not funny,” Debbie hissed. “We’ve gotta erase that voicemail before he hears it.”

Veronica stopped laughing. Her sunglasses slid down her nose, revealing bloodshot eyes wide with disbelief. “We?”

The alley behind Tony’s duplex smelled of stale beer, discarded food, and other things Debbie and Veronica didn’t want to think about. They crept along the wall, hugging the shadows, both wearing sunglasses that made them look ridiculously suspicious. Their heads pounded with each step.

“Do you know what the Bar is gonna do to my future career if we get caught for breaking and entering?” Veronica whispered frantically. “I’ll be disbarred before I even pass the exam. I’ll have to become one of those lawyers who advertise on bus benches. ‘Injured? Call the Garbage Girl!’”

“It’s your fault,” Debbie shot back, peering around a dumpster to make sure the coast was clear. “You’re the one who let me drink and dial.”

“I wasn’t the designated dialer!” Veronica protested. “That’s not even a thing!”

“But you knew I was doing it! And friends don’t let friends dial drunk!”

“Let’s just do this,” Veronica sighed, giving in.

The girls dashed down the alley to the back wall of Tony’s duplex and stopped beneath the high bathroom window. Debbie looked up at it.

“I’m gonna need a boost,” Debbie said.

Veronica cupped her hands, and Debbie clumsily used her as a stepping stool to reach the window. Veronica grunted under her weight. “Have you been eating concrete? You’re heavy.”

“It’s muscle,” Debbie grunted, straining to reach the window. “From all the running. Away from fires. That I accidentally start.”

Debbie reached the window ledge and peered inside.

The bathroom was small and cluttered, but mercifully empty.

She pulled a screwdriver from her pocket and jammed it into the window frame, trying to jimmy it open.

It slipped from her sweaty grasp, and the handle struck the glass with a sharp crack.

The window shattered, raining glass onto the bathroom sink below.

“Oops.”

“Tell me you didn’t just say ‘oops,’” Veronica whispered from below.

“It was a small oops.”

“There’s no such thing as a small oops when it involves breaking and entering.”

Debbie’s heart pounded as she clambered through the broken window, carefully avoiding its jagged edges. She dropped into the bathtub with a thud that seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

“I’m in,” she whispered down to Veronica. “Stay there and keep watch.”

“What am I supposed to be watching for? The cops? Tony’s angry neighbors? My legal career going down the drain?”

But Debbie had already disappeared into the apartment. She hurried to the door and peeked around the corner into Tony’s bedroom. He was fast asleep, a peaceful lump under a tangle of sheets. His mouth was slightly open, a soft snore escaping with each breath.

For a moment, Debbie forgot why she was there. She just stood there, watching him sleep, her heart doing that familiar flip it had been doing since she was thirteen. Then the hangover headache pulsed, reminding her of her mission.

She tiptoed into the kitchen, where her foot came down on an empty beer can with a deafening CRUNCH! She froze and looked back at Tony’s bedroom door. No movement. He was still sleeping.

Debbie shook off the can and walked over to the counter. She found his cell phone there, next to a half-eaten sandwich. She picked it up and scrolled to the voicemail. She’d seen him enter his passcode dozens of times, which, fortunately, wasn’t that hard to remember — 1234.

The voicemail app opened, and her heart sank. There were three new messages. She had no idea which one was hers. She pressed play on the first one.

‘Tony, it’s your mother. Just checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Call me back. Love you.’

She deleted it without thinking, then immediately regretted it. Tony’s mom would kill her if she knew. She moved on to the second message.

‘Hey, Tony, it’s Matt. Just wanted to let you know I’m bringing over those screenplays I printed at the office tomorrow. My boss says you owe the firm five bucks. Also, did you delete that picture of Jeff from your Instagram? He’s been whining about it all day.’

She deleted that one too. Now, for the moment of truth. Message three.

‘Um, hi. It’s me. Debbie.’ Her own voice, slurred and embarrassingly breathless, filled the silent kitchen. ‘Your friend. For like, fifteen years. Remember? Anyway, I was just calling to say...’

She cringed, listening to her own lovesick confession, then jabbed the delete button. She tiptoed back to the bathroom, carefully avoiding the beer can minefield.

Back in the alley, Veronica was pacing nervously, checking her watch every thirty seconds. Debbie’s head poked out the window.

“Done.”

“Thank God,” Veronica breathed, visibly relieved. “Now can we go home and be hungover in peace? I have a date with some aspirin and a gallon of water.”

“Yeah. Help me down.”

Debbie scrambled back out the window, dropping into the alley with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Just as her feet hit the ground, a siren chirped. The girls spun around to see a police car idling at the mouth of the alley, its lights flashing. A cop leaned out his window.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You lost your keys.”

Veronica looked at Debbie, ready to strangle her. “Any more ideas?”

Debbie’s mind raced through scenarios. Only one sort of made sense. “Yeah. We should run.”

“Run? Are you insane? That’s the worst—”

But Debbie had already taken off down the alley in the opposite direction of the police car. Veronica looked back at the cop, who was already reaching for his radio, then bolted after her friend.

“I’m going to kill you!” she shouted as they ran.

They turned a corner, then another, zigzagging through the neighborhood with no real plan except to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the police. After several blocks, they slowed to a stop, both gasping for breath.

“I think we lost him,” Debbie panted, hands on her knees.

“Are you kidding me?” Veronica wheezed. “He’s in a car. We’re on foot. And we’re hungover.”

As if on cue, the wail of a siren reached their ears, growing louder.

Debbie made a quick scan of the area. “We can hide in there!” she said, pointing to a row of large black garbage cans lined up for pickup outside a nearby house. Without waiting for Veronica’s response, Debbie raced over to the cans, lifted the lid of one, and climbed inside.

“Oh, hell no,” Veronica protested. “I’m not hiding in a garbage can!”

The siren grew louder, and flashing blue lights rounded the far corner.

“Fine, enjoy jail,” Debbie said from inside the can.

With a groan of defeat, Veronica climbed into the can with Debbie, pulling the lid closed over them. They huddled together in the dark, surrounded by the eye-watering stench of rotting food.

A moment later, they heard the police car slowly cruise past, its siren fading as it continued on down the street.

“Are they gone?” Veronica whispered.

Debbie ducked lower, pressing her ear to the side of the can. “I can’t tell. We should give it a couple minutes.”

“This is, without a doubt, the worst hangover activity ever,” Veronica grumbled. “Next time, let’s just eat greasy food and watch bad movies like normal people.”

A moment later, a loud grinding roar filled the air. A massive garbage truck rounded the corner and pulled up beside their hiding spot.

“What’s that noise?” Veronica asked.

Before Debbie could answer, a giant mechanical arm extended from the truck, clamping around the can. The world tilted as the arm raised them up, up, and over the truck, dumping them and the entire contents of the can into the cavernous, reeking back.

Hours later, Debbie and Veronica staggered back into their apartment, covered from head to toe in filth. Coffee grounds, banana peels, and things they didn’t want to identify clung to their clothes and hair. Veronica reached up and tugged a wad of pink bubble gum from her bangs.

“That’s it, roomie,” she said. “Any more drunk dialing, and you’re on your own.”